


moss on a stone

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (they're both kiss-averse here), Canon Asexual Character, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Kiss-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, No Apocalypse, Romance, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: They leave London holding hands.Out of the Institute; down the rain-slicked streets; on the train. Martin’s hand is cold, but holds Jon’s very firmly, never letting go until he absolutely has to. And then, after, they find each other again like magnets, and Jon likes to think he’s the natural opposite charge that attracts that cold palm to his warm one.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	moss on a stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dickwheelie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dickwheelie).



> Happy Valentine's Day everyone~
> 
> And special thanks to Semnai for beta reading!

They leave London holding hands. 

Out of the Institute; down the rain-slicked streets; on the train. Martin’s hand is cold, but holds Jon’s very firmly, never letting go until he absolutely has to. And then, after, they find each other again like magnets, and Jon likes to think he’s the natural opposite charge that attracts that cold palm to his warm one. 

The hand-holding stops for a bit when they first settle into the safehouse. But it comes back, mostly when Jon can’t stand to be in his own space any longer. They haven’t talked about much, but Jon knows that Martin still loves him, and he’s determined to show the feeling is mutual. So he makes a point to reach out, to catch Martin’s hand. Every time, it feels a bit less cold. Jon thinks about magnets and worries fleetingly about the possibility of repulsion, two alike forces bouncing off of one another. 

Then he remembers they are not magnets, and he dares to lace their fingers. Martin smiles.

* * *

The first night at the cottage was easy. Exhausted by the last few years of their lives, they collapsed in a heap together on the lumpy couch. The morning brought backaches and long talks and an unexpected surge of energy that helped them clean the small safehouse until it felt like a place that could actually be lived in. 

Martin dusted, swept, and checked every last corner for any unwelcome guests. Jon took stock and made lists of food and supplies they would need. They didn’t talk much except in quick, passing snippets, orbiting around each other at a safe distance. 

That evening came on more quickly than either expected. There was only one bedroom, as that day’s toils had led them to discover. The single bed was just big enough for both of them, and neither had the heart to make a fuss about it. Jon wondered if Martin wanted to. He could admit to himself, now, that he personally didn’t have a problem with it. 

So it was a little strange. Under the covers, one after the other, sharing the space. But they were both tired, and more interested in sleeping than anything else, so it wasn’t all that hard to lie down and be still. But Jon could feel Martin’s body heat, and wasn’t that something? It made Jon shiver, then settle. He’d always felt so cold in bed, alone with thin sheets and old, withered quilts. The blanket they had was much thicker than what Jon was used to. It kept all of their heat packed together. 

Jon slept. They woke up together, and Jon was reluctant to leave the bed. Martin shifted slightly, reaching for his glasses, and Jon felt the faintest brush of their thighs touching. Their knees knocked together just as Martin turned on the light and moved to stand. Jon shivered again and followed. 

Every evening, they’d flit about the bedroom, within which they shared everything now. Dresser, bathroom, wardrobe, bed. Covers, pillows, sheets. Warmth and comfort. Martin didn’t reach out for Jon, not for a very long time, but he never complained when their shoulders brushed, or if their feet got a bit tangled. Sometimes Jon couldn’t help himself, searching for Martin in the night, just to make sure he was really there. His skin was still so cool, but warmer under the blanket with Jon. Martin’s hands would reach out, too, to make sure Jon was a real and solid thing in the darkness. 

* * *

Eventually, Jon can’t help but wonder about kissing. 

It’s never been something he liked, not typically. Not in the way most people seem to crave it, lean into the act instinctively. He doesn’t mind giving or receiving them on hands or cheeks — he’s even enjoyed kisses on his neck. No, it’s just the meeting of mouths he takes issue with. 

Martin never seemed inclined to kiss, though, and Jon fretted over it. What if it was something he wanted, but was too shy to ask for? Maybe he didn’t want to feel like he was pressuring Jon? Which… Well, yeah, Jon wouldn’t like doing it, but he wouldn’t mind so much either, if their mouths stayed closed at least. He could deal with a bit of mouth-kissing if it made Martin feel loved and wanted. 

The longer they forgo the act, however, the more Jon begins to notice something: Martin’s almost never the one to reach out for affection, but he never rebuffs or avoids it when Jon initiates. Always seems to welcome it, in fact, to enjoy and indulge in it. It becomes more and more obvious the longer they live together, the way Martin seems to bloom under Jon’s touch. 

It makes Jon think back through all the moments he’s shared with Martin or witnessed him around others. Martin’s never been very touchy — he’d keep his hands to himself when he and Jon spent time together. Jon can’t recall an instance where Martin initiated touch with anyone else in the archives, actually. 

It makes Jon feel… oddly sad. Strangely frustrated. A little confused and self-conscious, worried. Martin’s not just tolerating him, right? 

Then… one day, it’s a bit like a switch flipped. Martin begins to reach out, to touch. Gently, so softy it makes Jon feel lighter than air. Fingers tapping knuckles until they turn over and they can clasp their hands together; a palm resting between Jon’s shoulder blades to guide him.

It’s like something breaks open, gently pried apart by cautious hands, until the sweetness is let out. Elation leads Jon to respond with abject positivity, and this, thankfully, doesn’t scare Martin off. The touches grow more frequent, more casual, more mundane. Another part of their new lives. Something exciting and readily shared. 

There’s still the matter of kissing, of course. But every day that passes makes it seem like less of a concern. 

* * *

One morning, when Jon is counting how many flowers he can see from his spot on the garden wall, he realizes he’s happy. 

Maybe he knew it already. It’s not really something he’s had time to think about, what with… everything. Martin. Figuring out how to live. Worrying about kisses or what to eat for dinner. 

Now it seems so obvious. He sees it in the sunlight as it falls across the moorland, in the chickweed and knotgrass, in the sound of Martin writing something down in his notebook. The poet is seated at the tiny wooden table against the side of the cottage, just barely big enough for two people to share. 

There are flowers in their garden. Nothing they put there on purpose, but Jon thinks it’s beautiful all the same. He likes the look of the decrepit stone wall, where part of it lies broken, exposing their little garden to the windy world outside. Many of the stones, discarded, left alone for ages, have moss growing on them. Maybe, someday, tiny flowers. 

There’s a floorboard in the cottage that creaks. It used to surprise Jon every time he stepped on it. If Martin was in the room to witness, it would always make him giggle; then, if Jon glared, playing at indignance, he would laugh even harder. Jon knows exactly where the spot is, now, and how to avoid it. But sometimes he steps on it anyway. 

“Martin.”

“Mm? Yes, love?”

The wind tugs at Jon’s hair playfully, and he lifts a hand to pull strands out of his face. Martin smiles at him. Jon feels love growing like a moss on stone. “I’m really happy,” he says, because that’s the truth. 

Martin’s smile is easily worth a thousand kisses. “You’re in a good mood. Come here?” 

“You come here.” 

There’s the potential for a petty, playful argument, but Martin just takes his empty mug and rests it on his closed notebook, to keep it from flying away. Then he’s at Jon’s side. They’re nearly even in height, with Jon sitting on the wall. Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and nuzzles his hair. “You’re happy? Really happy?” he asks, softly enough to keep it a secret, safe from the wind.

“I really am.” 

Martin hums at that. Jon brings his hands to rest atop Martin’s, poking and prodding until their fingers are linked. “I think I could always be happy, here,” he says, like the idea just occurred to him. “With you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you blushing?”

“Shut up,” Martin laughs, but then buries his face in Jon’s shoulder. “You’re just… saying things.” 

“Ah, right. I’ve been told I do that too often.” 

“Smartass. Mm.” Martin hugs him a little more tightly, just for a moment, like Jon might float away. Then he says, “I’m hungry. Want lunch?”

“Sure.”

But they don’t go inside, not right away. They look out, towards the gently rolling hills, listening to the grass in the breeze. Feeling the sun on their skin. Sharing something quiet, something honest and gentle and happy.


End file.
